


Make Dough, Not War

by rosytonics



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Christmas, Cooking Lessons, Fluff, Food Network Host!Hannibal, M/M, Matchmaking, Meddling Kids, Sassy Hannibal Lecter, Sassy Will Graham, Slow Burn, Will is a single dad because it's funny and also I said so, baker!Will, hallmark special 500: there’s no cannibals this time, making gingerbread houses as foreplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosytonics/pseuds/rosytonics
Summary: Food Network Host Hannibal Lecter is at the top of his game. In order to broaden his reach, his boss sends him to Holiday Junction, Virginia to film a "Twelve Days of Christmas" holiday vlog with local bakery owner Will Graham. There's just one problem: Hannibal Lecter hates Christmas.And he's not a huge fan of Will Graham, either.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	Make Dough, Not War

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays, and welcome to Madi's Very Cheesy And Ambitious Hallmark Movie Extravaganza! *ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊˚ i've been watching corny hallmark movies with my family for the past few weeks, and as much as i roll my eyes at them, i know i would absolutely eat that shit up if it were in a fic. so i made a fic. no cannibalism here, just tropey christmas nonsense. 
> 
> many thanks to my good friend wade for proofreading and for making sure i actually WRITE :') 
> 
> i really want to get this finished by new years... i hope y'all suffer through this cheesiness with me and ENJOY IT ♡

**_DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS: 13_ **

* * *

“My sincerest apologies, Bedelia, but I must have misheard you. You’d like me to go _where_?” 

Hannibal Lecter liked to think he had a wide array of talents; they ranged from cooking (a skill from which he made his career), linguistics, art, and playing obscure instruments that made people roll their eyes. He had an astute nose and perfect pitch, and an even better sense of taste. He could tell the difference between a Tamworth pig and a Wattle hog from a single bite, compose a harpsichord sonata in less than ten minutes, and recite Shakespeare’s sonnets from memory. (He was particularly fond of “Sonnet 20”—all soft words of longing and centuries of homoerotic speculation.) In short, he was _good_ at things. It wasn’t vanity, it was a fact. He knew food, he knew people, he knew art, and he knew sex. 

And he _thought_ he knew his own hearing, but apparently not, because his boss just demanded that he spend the next two weeks in—

“Holiday Junction, Virginia, yes.” Bedelia du Maurier was as intimidating as she was beautiful. Employees’ stomachs dropped upon being summoned to her office, and shaky interns avoided eye contact as they delivered her morning coffee. Her gaze bore icy, analytic edges, and often left a metallic aftertaste. She sat high on her throne in the _Food Network’s_ Chelsea Market studio; her crown sat in the form of a nameplate on her desk, reading _Senior Vice President_. She ruled her kingdom with an iron fist, and even Hannibal Lecter had no choice but to take a knee in her presence. She rested an elegant hand against her narrow jaw. “Your ratings are, well—they’re through the roof.” 

Hannibal preened. His program, _Gourmet at Home_ had just completed its second season to rave reviews. He’d struck a brand deal with Le Creuset, appeared on _Good Morning America_ , and designed a collection of tasteful aprons for Williams-Sonoma. He was, so to speak, at the top of his game. There was nowhere to go but up. 

And, apparently, Holiday Junction. 

“Did you know you were considered for _Sexiest Man Alive_ this year?” Bedelia continued, shuffling through a stack of magazines on her desk. She lifted a recent copy of _Good Housekeeping._ The headline read _HANNIBAL LECTER’S HALLOWEEN TREATS: Candy for the Kids, AND for the Eyes!_ There, on the cover, was a rather dashing photo of Hannibal (if he dared to say so himself) holding a large pumpkin. “You’re on fire—and, evidently, so are most women between the ages of thirty and seventy five.” She handed him the magazine. 

“Yes, I seem to be quite popular with the network’s traditional demographic,” he replied semi-humbly as he flipped to his interview. The journalist he worked with was nice enough, but had a rude habit of staring. He could hardly blame her—his looks were a part of his intrigue, and they were just as much to thank for his success as his charisma and skill in the kitchen. “Which”— 

“Which is exactly why”—Bedelia liked to interrupt him, simply because she was the only one who could— “We’re sending you to Virginia. Thirty to seventy-five is great, but as you know, the Network has been trying to draw in younger millennial and generation Z viewership.” She passed him another article; it had been printed from her computer, and the large, red _Buzzfeed_ logo told him that it wouldn’t be as celebratory as the last.

“ _The Internet Thinks Hannibal Lecter is Hot, but Boring,_ ” he read aloud, scoffing, “I hardly think this qualifies as journalism.” It was an opinion piece, rife with screenshots of Tweets and _Rupaul’s Drag Race_ gifs. _Good Housekeeping_ was far from a peer-reviewed journal, but at least it didn’t use words like _bae_ (?) and _thirst trap_ (???). 

Bedelia frowned. “That’s up for debate, but it’s hardly the point, Hannibal.” She reached across her desk and tapped the logo with her finger. “ _That_ is how we get younger viewership. That’s how we expand our reach, and your career.” 

“By pandering to Twitter users?” Hannibal’s eyes skimmed over the article. _Hannibal Lecter may seem_ **_Daddy_ ** _to the uncritical eye, but upon further investigation, I found that he’s about as exciting as a Home Depot Dad falling asleep during the Super Bowl._ How utterly degrading! Even though he wasn’t exactly sure what this use of “daddy” meant. 

“By putting you out of your comfort zone.” Bedelia reached for her Starbucks coffee and took a sip. “Hm. Too much cream.” She set the cup back on her desk disdainfully, clearing her throat. “You’re not relatable to them, Hannibal—not yet.” 

With a scowl, Hannibal uncrossed his legs, only to cross them again with the other leg on top. It felt uncomfortable, and so did he. “My job is to cook, not to be _relatable_ .” No one had ever complained about his _relatability_ in culinary school. During his time as a sous-chef in Venice, no one sent back their dish complaining about his lack of _cordialità_. He was a chef, not a comedian. 

“Your _job_ ,” she reminded him, “Is working in media. That requires a degree of…versatility. You’ve already shown that your culinary skills are unparalleled, but that’s not enough to draw in a fresher audience. Especially when that audience already sees you as... _uppity_.” 

Uppity. 

Hannibal’s lip curled as he skipped to the article’s third paragraph. 

  
  


_Look, I’m not saying that Lecter’s creations don’t look good. They look_ **_incredible_ ** _, and so does he. But he lacks the same friendly demeanor as the Network’s more longevous hosts. Unlike Ina Garten and Ree Drummond, it’s hard to picture Hannibal Lecter cooking_ **_with_ ** _you. While Garten and Drummond might be fun to work with, Lecter looks like his kitchen has a black-tie dress code. He has all the pomp and pretentiousness of your typical gourmet chef, but with the sharp tongue of a less swear-y Gordon Ramsay. He’s like the food critic from_ **_Ratatouille_ ** _—he knows what he’s doing, but he’s scary as hell. I’d be afraid to invite him over. One little mistake in front of him, and I’d worry he’d put_ **_me_ ** _on the menu!_

Hannibal was surprised to find that the article, penned by _Buzzfeed Food’s_ chief opinion-writer Freddie Lounds, left him feeling wounded. Normally he could shrug off criticism about his lofty interests and reserved demeanor as mere jealousy; people believed they were below him, and lashed out with bitterness. But the problem wasn’t that Lounds believed herself to be too low on a pedestal, but that Hannibal’s was far too high. _I’d like to see you on the menu_ , he thought snidely as he placed the leaflet face-down on Bedelia’s desk, _but I don’t like thin pigs_. 

“Viewers want to see you outside of the studio,” Bedelia said, watching shrewdly as Hannibal discarded the article. She was gauging his emotions—trying to figure out if Freddie Lounds had angered him enough to loosen the tie on his person suit. She wanted to know if she’d poked the bear hard enough to unleash its true nature. “They want to see who you _are,_ Hannibal, not just the persona you show to the camera.” 

The persona was Hannibal’s mode of survival. It was the armor he wore to protect something fragile and vulnerable inside of him; like locking a baby bird in a titanium safe. It wasn’t something for the world to see, relatability be damned. 

“You’re uncomfortable,” Bedelia noted. She arched a thin eyebrow. “Good.” A binder labeled _HL 12 DAYS X-MAS SPECIAL_ slid across the desk. “This is why I'm sending you to Holiday Junction.” Her explanation continued even as Hannibal opened the binder and flipped through its contents, like she didn’t trust him to read it himself. “Young people like vlogs—video blogging. It’s how a lot of _influencers_ make their careers. They’d rather watch someone go about their ordinary life on YouTube than tune into a cooking show.” 

The _vlogs_ , Bedelia hoped, would show the world who Hannibal was outside of his minimalist, carefully organized studio. The _real_ him. Hannibal was to spend two weeks in a town with a population of less than twenty thousand, tucked away into the northern Virginia wilderness, and film his experiences with their holiday traditions and, of course, recipes. A local bakery owner would serve as his guide, both in town and in the kitchen. During the day, he would show Hannibal around Holiday Junction, and each night they would bake together. 

Baking. 

Just another way of putting Hannibal out of his element, throwing him off his groove for the sake of viral relatability. The list of twelve recipes started off deceptively simple ( _Decorated sugar cutouts?_ Mere child’s play!), but escalated in difficulty before reaching a peak that made Hannibal’s necktie suddenly feel very tight. Croquembouche. It was delicate, and precise, and wrapped in strings of melted sugar thinner than a spider’s web. 

Hannibal would do it. He would make each one of these asinine, sugary treats, and he would do it perfectly because he was Hannibal Lecter. Parisian culinary academy graduate and _Sexiest Man Alive_ runner up Hannibal Lecter would not be brought to his knees by cream puffs, or Freddie Lounds, or a small-town Christmas, or whatever in God’s name an _influencer_ was. 

He stood, tucking the binder under his arm, and offered Bedelia his hand. 

“I am at your command, Ms. Du Maurier.” 

Bedelia shook his hand and almost smiled. “Excellent. You and Frankyln leave for Virginia tomorrow.” 

“Franklyn?”

This just got a hell of a lot more difficult. 

✵ . ✵ . ✵ .

The apartment on Central Park West did not seem to understand that it was December. Surely, it could look onto the street from its two wide living room windows and see the festive streets below—doors adorned with wreaths, red ribbons and pine boughs wrapped around traffic lights, and snow capped trees. Still, it remained undecorated. Unfestive. _Plain._

It was a source of gossip among those living nearby; the resident was so polite, always holding open the door and saying hello—and yet, he didn’t seem to have a _lick_ of holiday spirit! No Menorah in the window, no wreath on the door—not even a festive welcome mat! 

Perhaps he was simply too busy for the holidays. He was a television star, after all. Maybe he came home from his studio in Chelsea Market so _exhausted_ that he could barely lift his arms to string up fairy lights on the balcony. Or maybe he was a minimalist and chose to decorate in more subtle ways—red pillows on the leather sofa, and a few white candles on the mahogany dining table. A simple, subtle menorah on the mantle, perhaps.

They could speculate about their polite, handsome neighbor until they were blue in the face—and it was New York, so they probably would—but the simple answer to their question would still surprise them. 

Hannibal Lecter _hated_ Christmas. 

He didn't just hate it, he _resented_ it. 

What was Christmas these days, but a corporate money grab and a shameless effort to push religion into the secular world? The music gave him a headache, the decorations were _gaudy_ , and the films were cliché and overwhelmingly caucasian and heterosexual. It was a farce, it was theater—voices singing _peace on Earth and good will to men_ rang hollow while the poor starved and the wealthy fattened themselves with their own excess.

Hannibal scowled as he laid his suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. 

What sort of name was _Holiday Junction_ , anyway? It sounded like nothing but a gingerbread-scented tourist trap, and Bedelia wanted to drop him into the fray with his hands tied behind his back in a shiny, red bow. Ridiculous. Ludicrous! 

Sending Franklyn Froideveaux with him merely added insult to injury. 

God, if you deigned to believe in such a thing, had placed Franklyn Froideveaux in Hannibal Lecter’s path simply to spite him—and possibly to test his self control. Hannibal was _professional_ . Hannibal was _polite_ . Hannibal had never _once_ snapped at a member of the _Gourmet at Home_ staff. He took pride in that. 

Every time Franklyn opened his mouth, however, the tightrope that Hannibal kept himself balanced on wobbled. 

He insisted on acting as Hannibal’s personal assistant, despite being the _executive producer_ of the program. He sat in on every taping beside the director, Frederick Chilton, constantly calling _cut!_ when it was not his place to do so. Chilton often clenched his fist in his lap and ground his jaw to keep himself balanced, but he was on a far thinner rope than Hannibal. One of these days, he was going to snap and—to Hannibal’s delight—beat Frankyln Froideveaux’s face in with his clipboard. 

The word _annoying_ lacked teeth. Franklyn was not simply _annoying_. He was worthy of a stronger word, one with sharper fangs and a stronger jaw. A word that bit harder, cut deeper, and did far more damage. A word that didn’t just wound, but kill on impact. 

He was _vexatious_ , like a persistent mosquito or someone using their cell phone at the cinema. 

Actually, he probably _did_ use his cell phone at the cinema. 

And now, Hannibal was expected to spend two weeks with him, humbling himself for Freddie Lounds’ amusement, in _Christmasville USA._

If _spitefully packing a suitcase_ was an Olympic sport, Hannibal Lecter planned to take home the gold. 

✵ . ✵ . ✵ .

“You know, I think it’s great that we’re both morning people.” 

Hannibal’s leather carry-on bag contained a thirteen inch MacBook, a hide bound sketchpad, three charcoal pencils, a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, and Bedelia’s _Yuletide Torture_ binder. He wondered if it would be heavy enough to kill Franklyn if he whacked him hard enough. Or, at the very least, if it would knock him out for the duration of the flight. 

“Are you more of a coffee person or a tea person? I like coffee, myself, but you seem like more of a tea type.” 

The point of TSA precheck, as Hannibal understood it, was to get travelers through security quickly and painlessly. That was why the Network chose it. Evidently, though, at least a hundred people had the same idea. This had left him standing in the precheck line for the last twenty minutes, which was neither quick nor painless. 

“Earl Grey, oolong—fancy stuff like that. I had the best chai tea in the East Village last week—though, did you know that chai actually _means_ tea? I didn’t until after I ordered it! I must’ve sounded like an idiot, walking up and asking for _tea tea_.” 

Hannibal’s fingers twitched. _Franklyn, you sound like an idiot all the time. Ceaselessly. Relentlessly. And it’s pronounced_ **_cha_ ** _, you classless buffoon._ He glanced down at his watch. Five thirteen AM. It was too early to listen to this drivel. 

Actually, it was _never_ a good time. It was either too early in the day or too late in the evening; there was no opportune time that made listening to Franklyn’s rubbish even remotely tolerable. 

As soon as he buckled himself into his seat in First Class, Hannibal sunk his headphones over his ears and did his best to pretend Franklyn didn’t exist. 

Four hours later, the jet landed at Dulles International Airport. Hannibal made small talk with Franklyn as they waited at the baggage carousel, nodding to seem polite and saying the bare minimum. They retrieved their plentiful suitcases and loaded them into the back of a rental Buick. 

If four hours on a plane with Franklyn felt impossible, then a two hour drive with him was _Sisyphean._ Hannibal insisted on driving, a decision he quickly regretted as Franklyn reached for the radio dial.

“Driver controls the car, passenger controls the music,” he said. He grinned in a smug, punchable way as he turned the dial, sifting through the static for something that would surely make Hannibal’s ears bleed. “There we go! Something to get us in the mood.” 

Hannibal’s graceful hands tightened around the steering wheel as a festive choir of bells jingled their way into the car. _Just breathe,_ he reminded himself, _it’s only two hours. Focus on the road._

“You don’t mind if I sing, do you?” Franklin asked cheerfully, “I just _love_ Christmas music! Don’t you?” 

Hannibal glanced out the window at the eighteen-wheeler driving next to them. Surely, he could just...jerk the wheel _slightly_ to the right and kill them both. It would be quick and easy. It would be so much easier than this. 

✵ . ✵ . ✵ .

Holiday Junction was a foolish name for a town. 

It sat nestled between the rolling green hills of Washington County, like a little rural paradise a few hours from DC. It felt more isolated than it was. Small towns like this existed only in bubbles and Hallmark cards. Still, Hannibal couldn’t help but find it endearing as he drove the rental Buick down Main Street. 

He admired the historic brick storefronts and tall, elegant street-lamps. A chapel sat between a diner and a laundromat; its intricate stained glass windows caught the golden afternoon light and a simple nativity display sat outside beside a sign reading: **_WE’D LIKE TO SEE AMAZON DELIVER A VIRGIN BIRTH!_ **That won a smirk from Hannibal. If you were going to shove Christmas down everyone’s throats, you ought to at least be clever about it. 

The Holiday Junction Inn was not to be mistaken with the _Holiday Inn_ just off the expressway. It stood, in all its red-brick glory, at the corner of Belle Street and Evergreen Lane. It was old fashioned, well decorated, and absolutely enchanting. A lovely awning sloped from the mansard roof to hang over a wide patio. A round window, adorned with a simple pine wreath, sat over the intricate wood and fiberglass door. 

Franklyn whistled. “This is nice, huh?” 

“Yes,” Hannibal admitted as he popped open the trunk, “It’s quite charming.” Small towns like this were known for their lovely little inns. Even if he had to deal with Franklyn’s constant blathering and badgering for this entire trip, he would at least get to enjoy the simple pleasure of sipping his morning coffee in one of the patio chairs. 

He carefully pulled his suitcases from the trunk and set them on the ground. The camera bag came next. Vlogs were almost always homemade—the low production quality seemed to add to the appeal. Bedelia sent him to battle armed only with a single camera. Franklyn would assist him, of course (as if he had the ability to be anything but a hindrance), but the twelve-day special was meant to be entirely self-filmed and self-directed. 

It was a tantalizing challenge. 

“Mr. Lecter.” A new face appeared opposite Hannibal as he slammed the trunk shut. 

It was… a very nice face. Heart-shaped and scruffy-jawed, it was the kind of face that Michelangelo would drive himself to insanity trying to replicate. The deep hue of his eyes could give Picasso’s blue period a run for its money. He was radiant, he was _decadent_ , and—

He was wearing _flannel_. 

Well. Even the statue of David had a few design flaws. 

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, more of a statement than a question. He slung the camera bag over his shoulder and offered his hand. “You must be”—

“Will Graham—I’ll be your guide around the Junction for the next few weeks.” 

Hannibal was taken aback; people usually knew better than to interrupt him. Will shook Hannibal’s hand, but avoided meeting his eyes. He had a strong grip—baker’s hands, Hannibal supposed; the heel of his palm was meaty and thick, good for kneading dough, but his fingers seemed careful and lithe, good for icing small details. You could tell a lot about someone from a first handshake, and Hannibal was more perceptive than most. 

“Gonna be a lot different than what you’re probably used to.” Will said it like an order, rather than a warning. He dragged his eyes up and down Hannibal’s suit, looking at him the way a child might look at a plate of lima beans. “I don’t know what you expected, but I’m not gonna spend the next two weeks kissing your ass.” 

Hannibal _expected_ him to be like Franklyn—starstruck and eager, doing whatever he could to impress Hannibal and make himself look good on television. He’d anticipated a cream puff and gotten gingerbread; Will was solid, snappy, and uncompromising. 

Another delicious challenge to conquer.

“I look forward to working with you,” Hannibal replied, releasing Will’s hand. 

Will startled. It seemed he’d forgotten they were still touching. 

Hannibal was going to enjoy sinking his teeth into Will Graham. In fact, he was going to savor every last bite.

**Author's Note:**

> you can yell at me on tumblr at milfjeans ♡


End file.
